Little Traveller

This is another FB repost

Today at 7:24pm
Sometimes you need to lose your old self to find yourself.
But when you find yourself,
don't lose yourself again....
- Paolo Coelho

There is no coincidence.
I was just thinking a few days ago that I lost the little traveler that was me.
And I want her back.

I think the only people who knew
that old me would be my parents and my older sister. Yeah and I told Bem some days ago, too.

When I was in preschool, I'd get myself in trouble with mama.
Not because I fought with the other kids or was naughty in class.
But because she would always end up as the last parent
in the waiting area for parents picking up their kids.
Sometimes she would even stay up to near afternoon looking all over for me.

I was always wandering around, see.
I marveled at the unknown rooms and giant structures
that was the gymnasium and auditorium.
I was exhilarated at exploring the silence of the chapel.
It was thrilling, that sense of the forbidden.
And yeah I remembered slipping myself
in between the barred gates of the playground.
To check if I can get in, I'd slip my lunchbox first
in between the metal grills of the gate.
Then I'd try to see if I can get my head
to the other side of those bars.
If it fits, then the game begins!
How simple that happiness was! And yet how profound. :)

So I was trying to bring back the feeling of the fearless traveler.
The endless excitement of satiating one's curiosity
without fearing other's judgement.
I was never worried about what others would think back then
maybe because I had no one with me to worry about.
Still I miss the carefree days of my traveling years.

I'll try to channel it again.
Wish me luck. :)

The Right Side Of My Bed

Okay, so I've noticed I'm posting a-notch-lower-than-heavy
kind of stuff. Emo to be precise.

So at this point I'm gonna try, really, to inject enthusiasm,
a bit of a cheer, some optimism,
all the non-heavy stuff on my posts.

After all, we have to choose happiness.
I have to stop going with the heavy flow of pessimism or nihilism.
It's not good for my life.

Although I'm pretty certain that Rainy Days will always
evoke a bit of nostalgia, wistfulness, and a sense of solitude in me.
Thus, provoking the flow of my creative juices.
(*cough cough ahem*)
Hence, the name of my blog.

Ah well.
Rainy Days doesn't always mean sadness.
It's all kinds of purging at most. And that's not negative.

So, hopefully, my next post would be a refreshing kind.
Like a fresh summer drizzle.

Cheers.

Left Out

"I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead
And all but he departed!”


Thomas Moore (Irish Poet , 1779-1852)

Walking on Eggs

wut's with anxiety? it spreads and violates like a poisonous mist.
you're caught unaware
then POOF!
it becomes rage.

a tempest, a flurry of madness
the air is filled with heaviness and knives are raining on everyone
slowly, gradually
it dissipates,
that poisonous mist.

leaving everything and everyone in shambles,
closed doors and stony stares
the calm is a sham
the air is still oppressive
you never know when it'll explode.

Still Untitled

How do you cry silently?
No sound at all
A cry so deep, it needs to be hidden
Crying like this,
Do you wonder
About the pain that caused it?
Anger is pain too right?
A mounting anger; It, too, runs deep
But why hide this?
Ah, there must be love behind it
Yes, behind it.
Love is powerful, yes.
So powerful, it creates it's own tempest
It lets the tempest rage on
Until love is truly behind it all.
After the tempest, does love step forward?
Ah no, love creates another spawn
regret
Love is powerful, yes.
But it's always behind
The rage and regret it creates -
Insignificant and forgotten.

Something from Odd Thomas

from my notes :)

July 14, 2010
9:58 am

It's the weariness from futility and disillusionment of purpose.

The weariness that came from futility
The purpose and commitments that means responsibility
The weariness from reflection -
It all disappears with a simple life,
little pleasures, routine and small jobs.

not a writer. sad.

I don't think I'll ever be a writer.
It's a job, right? A job has deadlines. And what I write, it's not restricted to deadlines. It shouldn't be. It will wither and die if there is a 'date-and/or-time-to-finish' set to it.

Anyhoo, I love the idea of a blog.
However, I think I've been ignoring it for months now.
I just can't seem to write.
Is it a block maybe? There are so many things to write about but for some reason, I can't put it into words. I'm not in a haste to write about anything, but, I feel like a lot of note-worthy things are being missed.
Maybe I should've attempted to write about them now. But I wouldn't be able to give them justice if I do it at this point.

So, they'll just have to wait?

Nah, life starts anew everytime and so would my notes.